i figure that if i have to guzzle an ounce and a half of powerful liquid laxative tomorrow at 4 PM then again at 7, i'm likely to spend the evening circling the bathroom and since i have to cook some food to freeze for easy warming while i am down for the count . . . i don't want to be mixing cooking with toilet visits, you know? so this evening i've been racing around like a madwoman trying to get things done. i am the furthest thing from a domestic goddess, so you have to understand that this is hard work for someone like me. for instance, i'm incapable of making Jello without reading the box instructions word for word. i just made some because after breakfast tomorrow my diet is strictly curtailed to Jello and clear liquids. then at 4 PM, well - you know what happens then.
first on the agenda after work was a visit to the grocery store. i loath the grocery store. it's like my version of hell on earth. i shop like a european usually, stopping for stuff at the nearby little family grocer where i no doubt pay twice as much. and the irony is - that means i end up shopping 5 times more than if i went once a week! but i just can't stand the Big Shopping. however, i had to do it tonight so my usually empty cupboards and fridge would be stocked for the duration. i got 3 bags of oranges for the price of one, so if anyone local wants oranges i have plenty to dole out. lots of toilet paper, naturally, because that's gonna be a must-have tomorrow night! 3 bags of cat litter (hey, i have 6 cats), so much deli ham and cheese i will never want to look another sandwich in the eye again after this, and lots of my favorite Pepsi 0. people wonder why i drink it - it has 0 calories, 0 sugar, and 0 caffeine. but it's a nice change from my usual gallons of water.
when i got home and unloaded all the stuff i set about trying to shovel the godawful slop mother nature dumped on us today. heavy slush is a bitch. only half the walk is shoveled and sanded (yes, just the part i need to get to the driveway and back). pedestrians will just have to take their chances from there. around here they tend to walk in the middle of the street with their dogs anyway, a joy for those of us trying to navigate snowy streets. it's a law to shovel your sidewalk and yet they don't use the damn thing! but, with my luck, one will, and that person will fall on their ass and yell whiplash and sue me. i'll take my chances. the back porch steps are a bitch and i am worried about being able to get out to feed my bunnies and the wild birds . . . but maybe the little kids across the street would like to earn a couple bucks. i decided not to change the litterboxes until the last minute tomorrow night so they are as clean as possible for the upcoming week or so.
now i am washing my button-butt longjohns, which i suspect i will spend the majority of my time in (i need to find the other pair!) after 4 holes in your belly, you really don't want to be in anything with a waistband and i am a big fan of the button-butt for winter visits to the john. all my blankies and robes are washing. since i suspect i'll be on the couch downstairs for the first night home at the very least, i covered the cushions with a snuggly wool blanket. but then i covered that with another blanket because i know my cats - and one of them is bound to vomit a hairball on my bedding. the little bastards will never hurl a hairball on the wood floor. no, it has to be in one of my shoes or on the rug or on the couch. so i am prepared! particularly since i just fed Mikey some shrimp tails, his favorites. he puts them down with gusto, but they seem to come back up with equal gusto later on. but with those cute pleading yellow eyes, how can i resist giving him his treat?
i'm making angel hair pasta, spinach, shrimp and feta (with olive oil) for my dinner and enough left over to freeze. this is a meal i can manage to make because it doesn't require much of my presence at the stove. yes, i hate the stove. if it takes longer than 15 minutes to cook, i'm not interested in cooking it. since bob died i think i've turned the oven on all of 3 times. the microwave, on the other hand, gets good use. i have 2 pots and 2 frying pans. i can also make spaghetti and meatballs. i am an expert at cooking hot dogs.
a friend of mine promised to deliver some tubular meat (the best kind) on sunday. goddammit, i hope he brings some crackers to go with that sausage!
i forgot to borrow some DVDs from the library for moments of boredom. daytime soaps might drive me to suicide and i don't think there's much else on. i have 5 books to read and hey, you ineternet people can entertain me. how long i am supposed to be laid up, i don't know. when i had regular laparoscopy i guess it was a couple days but this time there's 4 holes instead of 2 in the belly and organ removal so . . . i doubt i'll be tuning into the exercise channel to tone my abs. i wonder when i can drive again? i forgot to ask. i drive a stick (jeep wrangler) so it requires a little more of the abdominal cavity than a regular weenie kind of automatic car. but when there's a will there's a way. in due time.
the best "gift" i bought myself for this upcoming exile to the couch is an electric blanket. all the heat in this 150 yr old house goes upstairs even with the door closed at the bottom of the stairs. i can crank the heat to 75 on a 10 degree night and be lucky if it gets up to 61. with a $290 natural gas bill this month, i've definitely decided an electric blanket down here is the way to go! i literally go into a heat-induced coma beneath it and so does Biggie, my 20 lb cat who should, by all rights, be hot enough with all that fat, but never is. my biggest fear is Biggie deciding to pussyfoot across my tender belly, as cats are wont to do. mine are horrible. Spanky sits on my chest, Mikey swats me in the face when he wants me to get up. they all use me as a natural bridge to get from one side of the bed to the other. assholes. i feel sorry for Baby, who has never come downstairs of her own volition since she arrived here in September of 2007. apparently, she is queen of all upstairs. my bed is her bed, she has her dainty water goblet bedside, the spare room has her food and her Baby-Only litterbox. if i am down her for a while she will be lonely. well, perhaps not. she has 5 boycats to keep her company, all of whom are allowed on the bed only by virtue of her grace. that is, except Mikey, who is top cat to Baby's queen cat. he is 18 and nobody fucks with him.
today the hospital lady told me to bring as little as possible for my overnight stay (in the maternity ward - which i find somehow quite amusing). no jewelry, no nail polish, what? - no false eyelashes?! no lipstick (but what about that Lifetime show i saw advertised called 'Why I Wore Lipstick to My Mastectomy'?? i can't wear lipstick to my ute removal? that's just not fair. so i hesitantly asked, "is it OK if i bring my pink stuffed bunny? i can't sleep without him." the nurse laughed, but nicely, and said of course. just not into the operating room. that's OK, he's not sterile after all, and no amount of washing seems to get the little balls of Baby's black fur off him.
it's weird, i never felt the least bit anxious about any prior surgery. in fact the nurses laughed when they had to wake me up to insert the IV i was so relaxed (and no, it wasn't thanks to drugs). see, bob was there. i felt completely at ease in his presence and tend to just surrender myself over to the hospital staff (really, like there's a choice anyway?) i took for granted that if i died, not that i would have or will, he'd take care of things. but there is no more bob. the hospital has so many unpleasant memories for me, since this is where he died. bob won't be there. he won't sit with me beforehand, won't be there in Recovery, won't visit, won't take me home and take care of me. someone today told me "but he will be there" and i like that thought and could kiss her for saying so.
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
Saturday, January 3, 2009
a christmas message
too many people seem to find the holidays a chore and i find that sad. to them, i guess, the spirit was lost. perhaps long ago. perhaps when they found out santa claus wasn't real. but he is. he may not be a jolly fat elf in red velvet, but he is a spirit that should live inside your heart. a symbol of the joy of giving. within your reach. why should it matter so much how much money you have, how much you spend? where has the simple joy in giving gone? a handmade gift matters as much as a store-bought X-Box. more if you ask me.
in 2006, as december progressed, i spent every evening in a bentwood rocker as bob lay on the couch, weak from cancer, chemo and radiation. the past summer he had grown birdhouse gourds in the garden and we dried them during the fall, then scooped out the seeds and guts through an inch wide hole to hollow them. i am no painter by schooling (any art i have has come to me naturally), but that winter i took up some brushes and mixed colors as i sat in the rocker. i was my own worst critic as the little gourd paintings took shape, but bob urged me on. and indeed they took shape. a Modigliani lady for jennifer, a buddha for joanne, a sunflower for mom, a little house and white picket fence for bob's sister irene. secretly, as bob slept, i painted his christmas gourd upstairs in my computer room where there was no risk of him waking and seeing my surprise. it was the simplest gourd. all it had was a big red heart surrounding the birdhouse hole and I Love You painted in black script. the hole was the o in love.
on christmas morning it was his best loved gift. he loved that silly and simple gourd more than i ever would have imagined and had to have it on the coffee table so it was in his line of sight at all times. after all, cancer had made the couch his home. he was too weak to celebrate christmas more than our morning together and i was loath to leave him even for a short while to visit with my family, though he insisted. he gave me 2 things, neither home-made, but both from the heart and so special to me. one was a cordless drill and matching kit of bits, something i have used countless times since his death and thanked him inwardly every time. it has literally been a tool of survival many times. a tool that offered me his help as i work alone now. the other present was a necklace, a wave of diamonds that delicately hang in the hollow of my throat. the TV had advertised the design as Forever and that, to me, is what he was saying his love was. i think of him going out to get it, gathering all his strength just to do so. he made sure his gifts to me were meaningful, lasting, and i treasure them. in contrast, i didn't know what to get my dying man. hopeful things like a workshirt, jeans, things he could wear when he returned to work. all the while i knew he never would. but some part of me thought that if i acted like there was a future, i could make it happen. yet they felt so lame as he opened them. until he unwrapped his I Love You gourd. i said "it isn't much....." and he said "are you kidding? i love it!" and it was clear by the shine in his eyes that he did.
when bob died just 3 weeks later i brought his ashes home in a simple plastic and surprisingly heavy black plastic box. i knew of no urn, no box he would choose for his ashes. but then i thought of the christmas gourd he loved so much. an odd final resting place, but then bob was no average guy, and there was no question in my mind that he would have said a hearty YES! when i chose it for his ashes. a simple black rubber stopper from the hardware store is glued in what would have been a bird's entry, the o in I Love You. in his last days bob almost never had it out of his sight and now it sits always in my line of sight as i sit where he once lay. his favorite red electric christmas candle flickers nearby. never unplugged since christmas 2006 and still flickering as if by magic for 2 years. i could not pull the plug and extinguish his light, and it feels as though he's kept it lit long beyond the natural life of any real bulb. i am silly, sentimental, superstitious.
last valentine's day i stood on the back steps where we used to lounge around and shoot the shit together and i released 2 helium balloons into the cold winter sky. both silver, heart-shaped, with a red heart and I Love You on them. ribbons knotted together so they'd stay together wherever they went. yet they only went as far as the giant oak tree in the front yard, caught perhaps 30, 40, 50 feet up. tangled together in branches to bounce off one another in the wind. from my computer room window i could look right out and see them, slowly fading to simple silver over time. they'll never break free, i thought. slowly they deflated but still tossed with the wind together and periodically i'd stand in the yard and look up. still together, still there.
until this christmas morning.
for christmas i gave myself a 'present from bob', a ring with a pink tourmaline in the shape of a heart, hugged by 2 diamonds. it hung in a little gold box in the christmas tree until i opened it christmas morning and slipped it on atop his gold wedding ring which i wear on my left middle finger. then i dressed, fed the cats, then set out into the cold snowy day to feed the bunnies and fill the bird feeder. there, caught in the curlicues of his grape vines, was one of the valentine's balloons. somehow it had broken loose from its mate, from the tangle of branches, and fell right into my path despite the wind that blew. i put the coffee can of seed down in the snow and trudged over to rescue it.
i was filled with wonder on christmas morning. i looked up, and there was the other heart still caught in the tree, but in my hands the other flattened heart balloon still clearly read
I Love You
my pink heart ring paled in comparison to that gift. coincidence, you might say. it just happened to blow out of the tree, happened to catch in the vines. but i am not the most observant person in the world, yet i saw it glinting there. the wind was blowing hard - why hadn't it taken it away? it could have gone anywhere and yet there it was, right where i could find it on christmas morning. whenever i used to doubt something bob used to say "oh ye of little faith." but this, bob, i believe.
my last gift to him on christmas was I Love You and on this new christmas the I Love You was returned. i could not feel sad in the face of such a gift and looked up at his other heart in the winter-bare tree, saying aloud "thank you, bob" with a smile and happy tears.
in 2006, as december progressed, i spent every evening in a bentwood rocker as bob lay on the couch, weak from cancer, chemo and radiation. the past summer he had grown birdhouse gourds in the garden and we dried them during the fall, then scooped out the seeds and guts through an inch wide hole to hollow them. i am no painter by schooling (any art i have has come to me naturally), but that winter i took up some brushes and mixed colors as i sat in the rocker. i was my own worst critic as the little gourd paintings took shape, but bob urged me on. and indeed they took shape. a Modigliani lady for jennifer, a buddha for joanne, a sunflower for mom, a little house and white picket fence for bob's sister irene. secretly, as bob slept, i painted his christmas gourd upstairs in my computer room where there was no risk of him waking and seeing my surprise. it was the simplest gourd. all it had was a big red heart surrounding the birdhouse hole and I Love You painted in black script. the hole was the o in love.
on christmas morning it was his best loved gift. he loved that silly and simple gourd more than i ever would have imagined and had to have it on the coffee table so it was in his line of sight at all times. after all, cancer had made the couch his home. he was too weak to celebrate christmas more than our morning together and i was loath to leave him even for a short while to visit with my family, though he insisted. he gave me 2 things, neither home-made, but both from the heart and so special to me. one was a cordless drill and matching kit of bits, something i have used countless times since his death and thanked him inwardly every time. it has literally been a tool of survival many times. a tool that offered me his help as i work alone now. the other present was a necklace, a wave of diamonds that delicately hang in the hollow of my throat. the TV had advertised the design as Forever and that, to me, is what he was saying his love was. i think of him going out to get it, gathering all his strength just to do so. he made sure his gifts to me were meaningful, lasting, and i treasure them. in contrast, i didn't know what to get my dying man. hopeful things like a workshirt, jeans, things he could wear when he returned to work. all the while i knew he never would. but some part of me thought that if i acted like there was a future, i could make it happen. yet they felt so lame as he opened them. until he unwrapped his I Love You gourd. i said "it isn't much....." and he said "are you kidding? i love it!" and it was clear by the shine in his eyes that he did.
when bob died just 3 weeks later i brought his ashes home in a simple plastic and surprisingly heavy black plastic box. i knew of no urn, no box he would choose for his ashes. but then i thought of the christmas gourd he loved so much. an odd final resting place, but then bob was no average guy, and there was no question in my mind that he would have said a hearty YES! when i chose it for his ashes. a simple black rubber stopper from the hardware store is glued in what would have been a bird's entry, the o in I Love You. in his last days bob almost never had it out of his sight and now it sits always in my line of sight as i sit where he once lay. his favorite red electric christmas candle flickers nearby. never unplugged since christmas 2006 and still flickering as if by magic for 2 years. i could not pull the plug and extinguish his light, and it feels as though he's kept it lit long beyond the natural life of any real bulb. i am silly, sentimental, superstitious.
last valentine's day i stood on the back steps where we used to lounge around and shoot the shit together and i released 2 helium balloons into the cold winter sky. both silver, heart-shaped, with a red heart and I Love You on them. ribbons knotted together so they'd stay together wherever they went. yet they only went as far as the giant oak tree in the front yard, caught perhaps 30, 40, 50 feet up. tangled together in branches to bounce off one another in the wind. from my computer room window i could look right out and see them, slowly fading to simple silver over time. they'll never break free, i thought. slowly they deflated but still tossed with the wind together and periodically i'd stand in the yard and look up. still together, still there.
until this christmas morning.
for christmas i gave myself a 'present from bob', a ring with a pink tourmaline in the shape of a heart, hugged by 2 diamonds. it hung in a little gold box in the christmas tree until i opened it christmas morning and slipped it on atop his gold wedding ring which i wear on my left middle finger. then i dressed, fed the cats, then set out into the cold snowy day to feed the bunnies and fill the bird feeder. there, caught in the curlicues of his grape vines, was one of the valentine's balloons. somehow it had broken loose from its mate, from the tangle of branches, and fell right into my path despite the wind that blew. i put the coffee can of seed down in the snow and trudged over to rescue it.
i was filled with wonder on christmas morning. i looked up, and there was the other heart still caught in the tree, but in my hands the other flattened heart balloon still clearly read
I Love You
my pink heart ring paled in comparison to that gift. coincidence, you might say. it just happened to blow out of the tree, happened to catch in the vines. but i am not the most observant person in the world, yet i saw it glinting there. the wind was blowing hard - why hadn't it taken it away? it could have gone anywhere and yet there it was, right where i could find it on christmas morning. whenever i used to doubt something bob used to say "oh ye of little faith." but this, bob, i believe.
my last gift to him on christmas was I Love You and on this new christmas the I Love You was returned. i could not feel sad in the face of such a gift and looked up at his other heart in the winter-bare tree, saying aloud "thank you, bob" with a smile and happy tears.
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
" . "
soon it will be over. 36 years of agony. no, no, i'm not about to off myself on New Year's Eve. the thought never even occurs to me even during my darkest moments. and besides, who would take care of the cats, the bunnies, the fish? and god...how i would hate the thought of someone going through my STUFF. so no, not gonna happen. what IS gonna happen is surgery and the removal of what i call that useless bag of flesh (though i actually think it might be muscle) - my uterus! since america is all about renaming things (i.e. the vagina has become the va-jay-jay, the kasloppis, the hot pocket) i will rename the uterus. since Useless Bag of Flesh is too long i'll rename it the Ute. my apologies to the indian tribe of the same name.
others get alot of use out of the ute, for instance that horrible Jon & Kate Plus 8 on TV and their counterparts 17 Kids and Counting. how i would like to neuter those folks. but alas, i am not queen of the world. i never had any use for mine. from Day One it's been nothing but a source of misery. when i was an innocent 12 my family was on a camping trip and at some lake in Wisconsin where we'd spent the day frolicking in the water. that night i had the top bunk in the camper and the next morning i awoke in a pool of blood. i stared at the murder-sized pool, horrified that perhaps a fish had bitten me in the lake and i'd suffered a delayed bloodletting. i called plaintively to my mother. the mother who had never told me the Facts of Life, mind you, and as the oldest i had no big sister to clue me in. hence my blame on the fish. she herded the rest of the family out of the camper then said to me, smiling, "you're a woman now". my inner response was 'what the fuck?' the next bit is blurry, but i assume we stuffed my underpants with toilet paper and changed the sheets, perhaps even flipped the now-stained mattress. then it was off to the store to buy me my very first Kotex and naturally i was completely mortified. the box looked gigantic on the check-out counter. the rest of my family was confused and curious and i just wanted to die. why hadn't i been warned about this horror???
we had places to go, things to see, so the six of us jammed into the station wagon and before long i found myself sicker than i'd ever been in my life. my gut suddenly cramped with pain and all i could do was vomit, so they gave me a bucket. no one had much tolerance for my condition and the other children grumbled about having to give the middle seat up to me so i could lay down. i begged to be allowed to just lay in my misery in the camper we dragged behind us, but that was Against the Law. fuck the law, i needed to get away from these people and puke and writhe in peace! finally i got my way and thus went the first day of my newfound womanhood. well, whoopee.
those cramps never relented. OK, sometimes i'd be spared for one month, but mostly i spent a day or more laying in bed in the fetal position or cycling my legs to distract me from the pain. i recall my youngest brother david coming up one day to console me when he was around 6. he brought a saucepan of hot water and a washcloth to put on my forehead, which was very sweet, and said "i hope i don't catch it". oh david, what i would have given to be a boy right then and rid myself of menstrual cramps. and penis envy had nothing to do with that wish!
my father had little pity for my condition. he seemed to think i was faking it and should get outside and help him cut wood. men have no idea and just once i would like to inflict a painful period on all of them for just one month so they'd learn a little compassion. instead, they seem for the most part to be revolted or at least uncomfortable by the very idea of a period. yeah, like we like it? to me it's nothing beautiful, no celebration of womanhood. 'aunt flo', 'my friend', all those stupid names . . . it's just a pain in the ass. or the ute, as it were.
i'll never forget the red flood that ruined my beautiful white jeans on a boat trip through some caverns in upstate New York. i'll never forget being unable to get up for (ironically) change of periods at school because my pants had soaked through to my wooden chair. i'll never forget my friend debbie's disbelief that i didn't know what a tampon was. hell, mom hadn't even told me about a period, much less a tampon. so debbie helped me buy some and described how to put it in. i was very wary. stick that thing up there? OK, so yeah there's a string . . . . but what if it came loose? how would i ever get that tampon out? so i didn't want to stick it up too far and spent the day leaping out of my chair every time i sat down. apparently, you can't stick a tampon in just a little ways. it will constantly remind you that it's there. then came the day (again, camping) that the string DID give way. any woman out there can imagine my horror. i tugged and there was no resistance, and all i held in my hand was a limp little string. how the fuck was i going to get out of this??! i spent what seemed like hours in the campground ladies room stall doubled over fishing around in there. i had no idea how deep this hole was! i didn't know where it could travel if i didn't get it out! and god, no way could i tell my parents "er...i need to go to the hospital to have this tampon fished out". i was 16 for god's sake. that was out of the question. finally, sweating profusely from the effort, i hooked the damn thing and pulled it out. no one has ever known such relief.
of course i swore off tampons at that moment, but a modern woman can't stick to that resolution. i was just never going to use that brand again.
i thought every girl experienced the same kind of cramps i did. i was too shy to compare notes on the subject. so i just withstood the monthly pain even though it reduced me to cold sweats and near or outright faints on many occasions. the nurse practicioner i went to for my first OBGYN appointment told me my cramps were "just normal". take some aspirin. aspirin didn't cut it, sister. and neither did percosets or anything else she prescribed, always with a tsk-tsk look as if she thought i was exaggerating. finally during one Thanksgiving dinner my entire family witnessed the distress i was in when i left the table to lay in the living room and cry in pain. if i left a table filled with food, after all, it had to be bad. my olive skin was white and clammy. the otherwise robust valerie was reduced to whimpering and writhing. the only thing that ever made any dent in the pain was a heating pad, and probably only because my burning flesh was preferable to what was going on inside my ute. my mother finally said "get rid of that nurse practicioner, go see a real doctor!"
and so i did. and so i was diagnosed with probable endometriosis. and, since they cannot really know for sure without going in, i underwent a laparoscopy which proved the diagnosis right. two little holes in my belly and the sensation that a truck had run over my abdomen, and i was cured! for a couple years anyway. endometriosis has this nasty little cancer-like habit of just going right on about its business even when you remove it if you are unlucky. and i was unlucky. endometriosis, if you don't know, is when endometrial tissue from inside the ute decides to go on a roadtrip through your gut and attach itself to various organs. in truly horrific cases it forms webs from the ute to other organs like your intestines or bladder. i read one horror story where it took a full 8 hours to remove such a web of tissue from one woman. the laparoscopy is really a piece of cake, especially when compared to years of monthly agony. they pump your belly full of gas through one little hole and stick a laser through another little hole to cauterize the adhesions. the gyno showed me polaroids afterwards of what had been going on in there all those many years and, while it wasn't pretty, it was rather fascinating. and so a couple years later when the endo returned i had no qualms about subjecting myself to yet another surgery. beats all the motrin and painkillers in the world.
but now it's gotten ridiculous. i'm 48 and i've been through this bullshit since the age of 12. enough already! i knew from a young age (12, to be exact, the year my brother david was born and i decided i wanted no part of babies) that i was never going to be a mother. i have no maternal instinct. i sucked at babysitting and i can't stand the caterwauling of an infant. i don't even consider babies human until they're old enough to be amusing (around at least 3) and even then i have about a 2 hour tolerance limit. that doesn't mean i am not able to be nurturing (though i dislike that touchie-feelie word) and compassionate. i have a passion for animals, for instance, and will defend them with my life, rescue and care for them. and don't call that a maternal instinct. it has nothing to do with mothering. Mother Theresa was one of the world's most compassionate, caring and doing people in the world - and yet, not a mother at all. go figure.
ironically, children like me. they think i am great fun, probably because i just treat them like little adults, i enjoy scaring the shit out if them with items like my genuine human skeleton, and they like it. even babies like me and i'll never know why. babies will stare at me in the most abnormal fashion and smile away, toddle up to me trying to look all cute, but in my head i'm saying 'you don't tempt me, kid. i want no part of your kind.' i don't coo over babies, i think they all pretty much look and act alike, and while i have no trouble working with incontinent cats, a baby diaper would make me lose it for sure. i am not impressed with reproduction. after all, the whole world is doing that in excess and ruining the planet with over-population. why is it a 'miracle' when a human does it .... and not when a rodent or roach does it?
too many people have children to have 'something to love' even though they are completely unprepared in so many ways to raise a child. adopt a pet, for chrissakes. others want to fill some hole within themselves. fill your hole in a psychiatrist's office first! (well, not literally, that would be wrong). and more people want little carbon copies of themselves. gotta make sure those genes live on! and yet, in a lot of cases, those genes really should be put to a screaming halt. but, like i said, i'm not queen of the world and i can't put a stop to this. sure, some people truly do have good reasons for having children, will be fit parents and have the means to raise them and know enough not to go overboard. i'm OK with that. moderation, people, moderation. on the flip side, there are so many unwanted children in this world already there's a good argument for adopting and giving them homes. i was with Angelina Jolie when she first started down that path, but now i just want to neuter her and Brad Pitt too.
some people, women that is, think i must be jealous of their status as mothers. nothing could be further from the truth. i've been accused of that by both one sister-in-law and one step-daughter. to that i say have you met me??? obviously they don't know me at all. they translate my failure to cootchie coo over the cute baby ad nauseum as envy. such an accusation is actually highly amusing to me. do they think they hold some exalted status for having reproduced? i don't get it. honey, i too can do it, i just don't wanna. i chose this childless status and i've been nothing but happy with that choice. so those out there who think we the childless must be unfulfilled, must not know some higher love, know this: different strokes for different folks. we actually can be whole without replicating. we're not lacking in anything.
what i want to be lacking, ladies, is a uterus! and soon, oh happy day, i'll have my wish. i would have done it a long time ago but i was never into the long 6 week recovery. i'm too active to opt for that. and now, more than ever, i can't afford to be down for the count for any length of time. since bob's death (another one who wasn't big on kids though he had 2 and 4 grandchildren) i seriously don't have time to be bedridden. no one is going to do all the work around here for me. but now, through the grace of medicine, i can have that ute removed through a mere 4 little holes in my belly. isn't science great? they've figured out some way to peel that thing like an apple and extract it through an itty bitty hole and reduce the recovery time to a week or two! several months back, when i was bleeding excessively, doubled over by bursting ovarian cysts and endometriosis, my gyno did exhaustive exams. i have fibroid tumors up the wazoo, some disease called adenomyosis (not life-threatening or painful so i don't care about the details), 2 cysts on one ovary and endometriosis. she gave me a list of 4 options, which started with 'wait for menopause and hope it comes soon.' uhhh.....fuck that! i've been waiting for 36 years! painkillers (yeah yeah, none have impressed me), some pill to fake menopause (no thanks, on enough meds as it is), OR the most radical - this surgery. radical? i'm in. take that useless bag of flesh!
so, on january 9 i am checking into the hospital to rid myself of the accursed ute. i had a biopsy the other day (why, i am not sure) and that hurt, but not as bad as the complete agony i was in just 2 weeks ago when i lay on the couch sobbing "make it stop, make it stop" and almost dragged myself to the ER. all i can say is thank god for 800 mgs of motrin and a vicodin. wouldn't you know my last period had to go out with a bang. that is one vindictive ute.
others get alot of use out of the ute, for instance that horrible Jon & Kate Plus 8 on TV and their counterparts 17 Kids and Counting. how i would like to neuter those folks. but alas, i am not queen of the world. i never had any use for mine. from Day One it's been nothing but a source of misery. when i was an innocent 12 my family was on a camping trip and at some lake in Wisconsin where we'd spent the day frolicking in the water. that night i had the top bunk in the camper and the next morning i awoke in a pool of blood. i stared at the murder-sized pool, horrified that perhaps a fish had bitten me in the lake and i'd suffered a delayed bloodletting. i called plaintively to my mother. the mother who had never told me the Facts of Life, mind you, and as the oldest i had no big sister to clue me in. hence my blame on the fish. she herded the rest of the family out of the camper then said to me, smiling, "you're a woman now". my inner response was 'what the fuck?' the next bit is blurry, but i assume we stuffed my underpants with toilet paper and changed the sheets, perhaps even flipped the now-stained mattress. then it was off to the store to buy me my very first Kotex and naturally i was completely mortified. the box looked gigantic on the check-out counter. the rest of my family was confused and curious and i just wanted to die. why hadn't i been warned about this horror???
we had places to go, things to see, so the six of us jammed into the station wagon and before long i found myself sicker than i'd ever been in my life. my gut suddenly cramped with pain and all i could do was vomit, so they gave me a bucket. no one had much tolerance for my condition and the other children grumbled about having to give the middle seat up to me so i could lay down. i begged to be allowed to just lay in my misery in the camper we dragged behind us, but that was Against the Law. fuck the law, i needed to get away from these people and puke and writhe in peace! finally i got my way and thus went the first day of my newfound womanhood. well, whoopee.
those cramps never relented. OK, sometimes i'd be spared for one month, but mostly i spent a day or more laying in bed in the fetal position or cycling my legs to distract me from the pain. i recall my youngest brother david coming up one day to console me when he was around 6. he brought a saucepan of hot water and a washcloth to put on my forehead, which was very sweet, and said "i hope i don't catch it". oh david, what i would have given to be a boy right then and rid myself of menstrual cramps. and penis envy had nothing to do with that wish!
my father had little pity for my condition. he seemed to think i was faking it and should get outside and help him cut wood. men have no idea and just once i would like to inflict a painful period on all of them for just one month so they'd learn a little compassion. instead, they seem for the most part to be revolted or at least uncomfortable by the very idea of a period. yeah, like we like it? to me it's nothing beautiful, no celebration of womanhood. 'aunt flo', 'my friend', all those stupid names . . . it's just a pain in the ass. or the ute, as it were.
i'll never forget the red flood that ruined my beautiful white jeans on a boat trip through some caverns in upstate New York. i'll never forget being unable to get up for (ironically) change of periods at school because my pants had soaked through to my wooden chair. i'll never forget my friend debbie's disbelief that i didn't know what a tampon was. hell, mom hadn't even told me about a period, much less a tampon. so debbie helped me buy some and described how to put it in. i was very wary. stick that thing up there? OK, so yeah there's a string . . . . but what if it came loose? how would i ever get that tampon out? so i didn't want to stick it up too far and spent the day leaping out of my chair every time i sat down. apparently, you can't stick a tampon in just a little ways. it will constantly remind you that it's there. then came the day (again, camping) that the string DID give way. any woman out there can imagine my horror. i tugged and there was no resistance, and all i held in my hand was a limp little string. how the fuck was i going to get out of this??! i spent what seemed like hours in the campground ladies room stall doubled over fishing around in there. i had no idea how deep this hole was! i didn't know where it could travel if i didn't get it out! and god, no way could i tell my parents "er...i need to go to the hospital to have this tampon fished out". i was 16 for god's sake. that was out of the question. finally, sweating profusely from the effort, i hooked the damn thing and pulled it out. no one has ever known such relief.
of course i swore off tampons at that moment, but a modern woman can't stick to that resolution. i was just never going to use that brand again.
i thought every girl experienced the same kind of cramps i did. i was too shy to compare notes on the subject. so i just withstood the monthly pain even though it reduced me to cold sweats and near or outright faints on many occasions. the nurse practicioner i went to for my first OBGYN appointment told me my cramps were "just normal". take some aspirin. aspirin didn't cut it, sister. and neither did percosets or anything else she prescribed, always with a tsk-tsk look as if she thought i was exaggerating. finally during one Thanksgiving dinner my entire family witnessed the distress i was in when i left the table to lay in the living room and cry in pain. if i left a table filled with food, after all, it had to be bad. my olive skin was white and clammy. the otherwise robust valerie was reduced to whimpering and writhing. the only thing that ever made any dent in the pain was a heating pad, and probably only because my burning flesh was preferable to what was going on inside my ute. my mother finally said "get rid of that nurse practicioner, go see a real doctor!"
and so i did. and so i was diagnosed with probable endometriosis. and, since they cannot really know for sure without going in, i underwent a laparoscopy which proved the diagnosis right. two little holes in my belly and the sensation that a truck had run over my abdomen, and i was cured! for a couple years anyway. endometriosis has this nasty little cancer-like habit of just going right on about its business even when you remove it if you are unlucky. and i was unlucky. endometriosis, if you don't know, is when endometrial tissue from inside the ute decides to go on a roadtrip through your gut and attach itself to various organs. in truly horrific cases it forms webs from the ute to other organs like your intestines or bladder. i read one horror story where it took a full 8 hours to remove such a web of tissue from one woman. the laparoscopy is really a piece of cake, especially when compared to years of monthly agony. they pump your belly full of gas through one little hole and stick a laser through another little hole to cauterize the adhesions. the gyno showed me polaroids afterwards of what had been going on in there all those many years and, while it wasn't pretty, it was rather fascinating. and so a couple years later when the endo returned i had no qualms about subjecting myself to yet another surgery. beats all the motrin and painkillers in the world.
but now it's gotten ridiculous. i'm 48 and i've been through this bullshit since the age of 12. enough already! i knew from a young age (12, to be exact, the year my brother david was born and i decided i wanted no part of babies) that i was never going to be a mother. i have no maternal instinct. i sucked at babysitting and i can't stand the caterwauling of an infant. i don't even consider babies human until they're old enough to be amusing (around at least 3) and even then i have about a 2 hour tolerance limit. that doesn't mean i am not able to be nurturing (though i dislike that touchie-feelie word) and compassionate. i have a passion for animals, for instance, and will defend them with my life, rescue and care for them. and don't call that a maternal instinct. it has nothing to do with mothering. Mother Theresa was one of the world's most compassionate, caring and doing people in the world - and yet, not a mother at all. go figure.
ironically, children like me. they think i am great fun, probably because i just treat them like little adults, i enjoy scaring the shit out if them with items like my genuine human skeleton, and they like it. even babies like me and i'll never know why. babies will stare at me in the most abnormal fashion and smile away, toddle up to me trying to look all cute, but in my head i'm saying 'you don't tempt me, kid. i want no part of your kind.' i don't coo over babies, i think they all pretty much look and act alike, and while i have no trouble working with incontinent cats, a baby diaper would make me lose it for sure. i am not impressed with reproduction. after all, the whole world is doing that in excess and ruining the planet with over-population. why is it a 'miracle' when a human does it .... and not when a rodent or roach does it?
too many people have children to have 'something to love' even though they are completely unprepared in so many ways to raise a child. adopt a pet, for chrissakes. others want to fill some hole within themselves. fill your hole in a psychiatrist's office first! (well, not literally, that would be wrong). and more people want little carbon copies of themselves. gotta make sure those genes live on! and yet, in a lot of cases, those genes really should be put to a screaming halt. but, like i said, i'm not queen of the world and i can't put a stop to this. sure, some people truly do have good reasons for having children, will be fit parents and have the means to raise them and know enough not to go overboard. i'm OK with that. moderation, people, moderation. on the flip side, there are so many unwanted children in this world already there's a good argument for adopting and giving them homes. i was with Angelina Jolie when she first started down that path, but now i just want to neuter her and Brad Pitt too.
some people, women that is, think i must be jealous of their status as mothers. nothing could be further from the truth. i've been accused of that by both one sister-in-law and one step-daughter. to that i say have you met me??? obviously they don't know me at all. they translate my failure to cootchie coo over the cute baby ad nauseum as envy. such an accusation is actually highly amusing to me. do they think they hold some exalted status for having reproduced? i don't get it. honey, i too can do it, i just don't wanna. i chose this childless status and i've been nothing but happy with that choice. so those out there who think we the childless must be unfulfilled, must not know some higher love, know this: different strokes for different folks. we actually can be whole without replicating. we're not lacking in anything.
what i want to be lacking, ladies, is a uterus! and soon, oh happy day, i'll have my wish. i would have done it a long time ago but i was never into the long 6 week recovery. i'm too active to opt for that. and now, more than ever, i can't afford to be down for the count for any length of time. since bob's death (another one who wasn't big on kids though he had 2 and 4 grandchildren) i seriously don't have time to be bedridden. no one is going to do all the work around here for me. but now, through the grace of medicine, i can have that ute removed through a mere 4 little holes in my belly. isn't science great? they've figured out some way to peel that thing like an apple and extract it through an itty bitty hole and reduce the recovery time to a week or two! several months back, when i was bleeding excessively, doubled over by bursting ovarian cysts and endometriosis, my gyno did exhaustive exams. i have fibroid tumors up the wazoo, some disease called adenomyosis (not life-threatening or painful so i don't care about the details), 2 cysts on one ovary and endometriosis. she gave me a list of 4 options, which started with 'wait for menopause and hope it comes soon.' uhhh.....fuck that! i've been waiting for 36 years! painkillers (yeah yeah, none have impressed me), some pill to fake menopause (no thanks, on enough meds as it is), OR the most radical - this surgery. radical? i'm in. take that useless bag of flesh!
so, on january 9 i am checking into the hospital to rid myself of the accursed ute. i had a biopsy the other day (why, i am not sure) and that hurt, but not as bad as the complete agony i was in just 2 weeks ago when i lay on the couch sobbing "make it stop, make it stop" and almost dragged myself to the ER. all i can say is thank god for 800 mgs of motrin and a vicodin. wouldn't you know my last period had to go out with a bang. that is one vindictive ute.
Sunday, December 7, 2008
i feel sorry for inanimate objects
under cover of twilight at 4:45 P.M. i drove bob's big old green ford F250 to the parking lot of the Bluebonnet Diner (or Blue Vomit as bob liked to call it). my mission was a christmas tree and i had to wait til dark because the inspection sticker on the truck expired back in august (i hope there are no cops reading this). my christmas tree guy has a set schedule and i knew he'd only be there until 5:00. bob and i discovered him years ago and love his variety of many-sized christmas trees for only thirty dollars max. i even brought my stand hoping that maybe he'd help me get the trunk in. this is my 3rd year getting a christmas tree on my own (bob was too sick in '06) so i still have a hard time getting the trunk in the stand. then again, both bob and pop had years of christmas trees under their belts and i seem to recall a lot of swearing by both parties associated with this once a year holiday effort.
i pulled in to the Bluebonnet lot to see jim (that's his name) putting his sign in the back of his pick-up. one lone christmas tree leaned against his wood stand. the only one left. this is one of the saddest christmas sights there is. i can't bear to look at un-bought wreaths and trees on christmas eve, looking so lonely and forlorn. their lives wasted because no one bought them for christmas. so you can imagine what the sight of this little lone tree did to me. you see, i have a problem. i feel sorry for inanimate objects and it would be all i could do not to buy this tree even if it was far too small. apartment size. i thought i'd go something like a six footer this year.
"is this the only tree you have left?" i asked and of course yes was his answer. i stared at the little tree, tormented. oh god, how could i leave it there all alone? if i didn't take it, who would?
as if reading my mind, jim said, "don't worry, if you don't take it, it won't go into the chipper. it was fresh cut yesterday and it will sell when i set up again on friday. i can't have too many small trees. people want them."
thank god. people want them. i didn't have to buy the tree based on fear that no one else would want it. because if that was the case i'd have to get it, even if it was too small to hold more than one string of lights and only a quarter of my ornaments. despite jim's reassurance, however, i felt bad that the poor little tree had spent 6 hours sitting out in the cold, rejected by every person who'd stopped there that day. it would be riding back to ashfield alone in the cold bed of his truck. could i actually let that happen?
i fought my urge to shell out $23 for a too-small tree just so it would have a christmas home tonight. i have to trust in jim that it won't be fodder for his chipper, that someone in northampton will need an apartment-sized tree on friday. if you live here and you need a little tree, please go buy that one. it took all i had to abandon the tiny tree and climb back in my truck, watching jim grab it by its little bark throat and toss it into the bed of his truck.
no, no, no, go home, valerie. wait for the tree you want.
this isn't my first struggle over inanimate objects. in fact, it happens all the time. i feel sorry for pathetic things, for lonely things, for leftover things. one day in a department store with my sister joanne we came upon an easter display. heaps of pastel-colored fuzzy stuffed animals just tossed into a pile, half of thems with their asses in the air, heads buried in the pile. i couldn't stand it. the ones with the faces would get all the attention if i didn't do something about it. they all had to have an equal chance at an easter home. so i stood there and righted every single stuffed duck, chick and bunny. sat them in a happy, smiling pile and left them, hoping my efforts would earn each one a home.
you might wonder how i ever worked at an animal shelter, right? believe me, it was hard. the only way i could do it was to take charge of photographing and writing up every cat for the web. to do so, i spent time with every cat trying to discover something unique about it. some hook by which i could draw someone in. one cross-eyed flame point siamese i compared to barbra streisand. i was not afraid to pull on heart strings and if a cat stayed too long at the shelter and became part of its Lonely Hearts Club i made it a poster and bombarded northampton with pathos. won't you give patches a chance? for months she's watched other cats come and go and wonders why no one ever chooses her... people started to come in to Dakin shelter actually asking for a cat by its description! barbra streisand was popular (again)! that's how i could spend hours there on sundays and manage to leave cat-less. well..... for the most part. we did end up with Mosby because after 6 months he was deemed unadoptable because of his unrelenting fear of people. and we did end up with Big because he was tagged as "vicious" ( of all things) depressed and anorexic. at 20 lbs, 8 yrs old, he romps and stomps happily around the house when he isn't licking me to death. and okay...i did end up with Baby from Best Friends out in Utah because she too was depressed and only (and literally) came out of the closet she hid in when i entered the Kitty Motel to squawk at me in her rusty gate old lady voice.
aside from the unwanted cats i've succumbed to, i have a special favorite and i sleep with it every night. it travels in my backpack with me on vacations and housekeepers set it on my pillows after making my motel room beds. it is my pink stuffed bunny rabbit. it doesn't have a name. that's all it's known by. bob and i happened upon the bunny rabbit in the grocery store shortly after one easter several years ago. a big cardboard box stood by the entrance filled with leftover easter candy and a 50% off sign. splayed alone in this pile of marshmallow chicks and hollow chocolate eggs was the pink bunny rabbit, a sad multi-colored pastel ribbon around its neck. god, it was so pathetic. every other stuffed animal had apparently been sold except him.
i have a lot of guilt associated with easter bunnies. as a child i had a big fawn colored bunny named Bun-Bun that my mother bought me when i was in the hospital. he was so tall and proud and cheery in his day. i destroyed him by sleeping with him for years. eventually he sagged and his metal frame feet stuck me in the ribs. his ears fell off and his head holes had to be sewn closed. he lost one black button eye and all the turgor went out of his neck so that it flopped over. fake fur rubbed off from years spent in the crook of my arm as i slept (yes, even into my teens), Bun-Bun looked like a mangy dog. sometime in my heartless 20's i threw him out. and to this day i wonder, how could i have done that?
so when i saw that pink bunny rabbit i stopped dead in my tracks and bob, knowing what was happening, groaned and picked the rabbit up by one leg and tossed it into the grocery basket. when i protested at such cavelier treatment he leaned over and put the bunny instead into the child seat of the metal basket and so we wheeled our way through the store. people smiling at us, somewhat charmed by our 'baby'. even the check-out lady was delighted and bob had to tell her " she felt sorry for it".
i sleep with it now the same way i slept with Bun-Bun of old. the pink bunny rabbit is a comfort there in the crook of my arm. a gift from bob i can hold close.
i pulled in to the Bluebonnet lot to see jim (that's his name) putting his sign in the back of his pick-up. one lone christmas tree leaned against his wood stand. the only one left. this is one of the saddest christmas sights there is. i can't bear to look at un-bought wreaths and trees on christmas eve, looking so lonely and forlorn. their lives wasted because no one bought them for christmas. so you can imagine what the sight of this little lone tree did to me. you see, i have a problem. i feel sorry for inanimate objects and it would be all i could do not to buy this tree even if it was far too small. apartment size. i thought i'd go something like a six footer this year.
"is this the only tree you have left?" i asked and of course yes was his answer. i stared at the little tree, tormented. oh god, how could i leave it there all alone? if i didn't take it, who would?
as if reading my mind, jim said, "don't worry, if you don't take it, it won't go into the chipper. it was fresh cut yesterday and it will sell when i set up again on friday. i can't have too many small trees. people want them."
thank god. people want them. i didn't have to buy the tree based on fear that no one else would want it. because if that was the case i'd have to get it, even if it was too small to hold more than one string of lights and only a quarter of my ornaments. despite jim's reassurance, however, i felt bad that the poor little tree had spent 6 hours sitting out in the cold, rejected by every person who'd stopped there that day. it would be riding back to ashfield alone in the cold bed of his truck. could i actually let that happen?
i fought my urge to shell out $23 for a too-small tree just so it would have a christmas home tonight. i have to trust in jim that it won't be fodder for his chipper, that someone in northampton will need an apartment-sized tree on friday. if you live here and you need a little tree, please go buy that one. it took all i had to abandon the tiny tree and climb back in my truck, watching jim grab it by its little bark throat and toss it into the bed of his truck.
no, no, no, go home, valerie. wait for the tree you want.
this isn't my first struggle over inanimate objects. in fact, it happens all the time. i feel sorry for pathetic things, for lonely things, for leftover things. one day in a department store with my sister joanne we came upon an easter display. heaps of pastel-colored fuzzy stuffed animals just tossed into a pile, half of thems with their asses in the air, heads buried in the pile. i couldn't stand it. the ones with the faces would get all the attention if i didn't do something about it. they all had to have an equal chance at an easter home. so i stood there and righted every single stuffed duck, chick and bunny. sat them in a happy, smiling pile and left them, hoping my efforts would earn each one a home.
you might wonder how i ever worked at an animal shelter, right? believe me, it was hard. the only way i could do it was to take charge of photographing and writing up every cat for the web. to do so, i spent time with every cat trying to discover something unique about it. some hook by which i could draw someone in. one cross-eyed flame point siamese i compared to barbra streisand. i was not afraid to pull on heart strings and if a cat stayed too long at the shelter and became part of its Lonely Hearts Club i made it a poster and bombarded northampton with pathos. won't you give patches a chance? for months she's watched other cats come and go and wonders why no one ever chooses her... people started to come in to Dakin shelter actually asking for a cat by its description! barbra streisand was popular (again)! that's how i could spend hours there on sundays and manage to leave cat-less. well..... for the most part. we did end up with Mosby because after 6 months he was deemed unadoptable because of his unrelenting fear of people. and we did end up with Big because he was tagged as "vicious" ( of all things) depressed and anorexic. at 20 lbs, 8 yrs old, he romps and stomps happily around the house when he isn't licking me to death. and okay...i did end up with Baby from Best Friends out in Utah because she too was depressed and only (and literally) came out of the closet she hid in when i entered the Kitty Motel to squawk at me in her rusty gate old lady voice.
aside from the unwanted cats i've succumbed to, i have a special favorite and i sleep with it every night. it travels in my backpack with me on vacations and housekeepers set it on my pillows after making my motel room beds. it is my pink stuffed bunny rabbit. it doesn't have a name. that's all it's known by. bob and i happened upon the bunny rabbit in the grocery store shortly after one easter several years ago. a big cardboard box stood by the entrance filled with leftover easter candy and a 50% off sign. splayed alone in this pile of marshmallow chicks and hollow chocolate eggs was the pink bunny rabbit, a sad multi-colored pastel ribbon around its neck. god, it was so pathetic. every other stuffed animal had apparently been sold except him.
i have a lot of guilt associated with easter bunnies. as a child i had a big fawn colored bunny named Bun-Bun that my mother bought me when i was in the hospital. he was so tall and proud and cheery in his day. i destroyed him by sleeping with him for years. eventually he sagged and his metal frame feet stuck me in the ribs. his ears fell off and his head holes had to be sewn closed. he lost one black button eye and all the turgor went out of his neck so that it flopped over. fake fur rubbed off from years spent in the crook of my arm as i slept (yes, even into my teens), Bun-Bun looked like a mangy dog. sometime in my heartless 20's i threw him out. and to this day i wonder, how could i have done that?
so when i saw that pink bunny rabbit i stopped dead in my tracks and bob, knowing what was happening, groaned and picked the rabbit up by one leg and tossed it into the grocery basket. when i protested at such cavelier treatment he leaned over and put the bunny instead into the child seat of the metal basket and so we wheeled our way through the store. people smiling at us, somewhat charmed by our 'baby'. even the check-out lady was delighted and bob had to tell her " she felt sorry for it".
i sleep with it now the same way i slept with Bun-Bun of old. the pink bunny rabbit is a comfort there in the crook of my arm. a gift from bob i can hold close.
Saturday, November 8, 2008
the reign of pain stems mainly from the plane
i'm home now, chock full of drugs right now and put myself on ice for good measure. 800 milligrams of motrin and 2 vicodin have yet to dull the pain in my lower back, which makes me walk like Quasimoto. i blame the plane. six hours from vegas to philly crammed in coach. OK, agreed - i spent the previous five days bent over mopping and sweeping and cleaning cat boxes as i volunteered at Best Friends Animal Sanctuary, so the storm was brewing. all it needed was a bolt of lightning to set it off. that bolt struck me as i ran through the philly airport after unfolding myself from a seat that seemed to shrink with every hour in the sky. had my plane been on time i wouldn't have been running. in Dingo boots no less. no one runs in Dingo boots. but i had to, the pilot said so. he announced over the loudspeaker "we're in a holding pattern over philly because of weather right now but we are in communication via computer and your connecting flights will wait for you, but once we land i suggest you make haste to your gate."
you know airplane crowds, they're up and in the aisle long before the hatch door ever opens. like a herd of cows waiting to be milked. they don't care if you need to cut through the line and get out first. in Coach there's a mentality of "i suffered like a sardine for 3000 miles and i am not about to let anyone get off this plane before me". you know the type. they stand there slowly hauling their oversized carry-on out of the overhead bin, oblivious to the impatient line of desperate flyers aching to flee the fuselage. unfortunately, even if these boneheads had moved more quickly, even if they had stepped aside for those of us with connecting flights, we never would have made our flights anyway. you see, the pilot lied. our connections were long gone. but i didn't know that yet as i clomped gracelessly through the airport, leather backpack repeatedly bouncing and ramming me in the spine until suddenly the lightning bolt struck and i froze. did i dare move? if i do will i end up on a stretcher? the muscle spasm radiated, burned, and never relented. my plane..... i have to make my plane. face twisted in pain, tears catching in my waterproof lashes, i gingerly staggered on to B 8, backpack clutched to my belly.
i arrived 3 minutes before scheduled take-off at the hartford connection gate to find emptiness. i looked out the plate glass windows and saw nothing. no plane. the dour airline lady at the desk had no pity for us - an angry man, an irate woman and her baby, and a disbelieving me.
"we don't hold planes," she said.
"that's not what the pilot said!" the three of us exploded.
she didn't give a damn and didn't hesitate to show it in her face. US AIR employees clearly need a seminar in customer service. "we never hold planes," she insisted. i begged to differ. "oddly enough," i said, "my flight out of charlotte, north carolina to vegas on friday sat on the runway a full twenty minutes specifically to wait for passengers from connecting flights. the pilot even told us that's why our take-off was late." she was unmoved. "the pilot promised us our connections would wait!" the red-faced man insisted. we were met with pursed lips, a shake of the head. besides, we could argue till we were blue in the face and it wouldn't bring the plane back. "when is the next flight?" we three asked in unison. our answer? that was it, no more flights tonight. we'd be catching the 7:55 AM to hartford tomorrow. tired of us, she directed us to US AIR's customer service booth where slightly less jaded employees handed us pathetic overnight goodie bags of toothpaste and combs and an alleged "discount" voucher for Howard Johnson's. DISCOUNT? i have to pay for US AIR's incompetence? $77, no less? wearily, she handed me a form i could fill out to contest the hotel cost and beg for reimbursement. but don't get your hopes up.
lurched sideways from the unrelenting electric shock of pain that had almost brought me to my knees on the run to Gate B 8, i shuffled outside to await the hotel's courtesy van. and waited. and waited. it was drizzling in philly, fitting the mood of all of us disgruntled US AIR victims leaning against chilled cement barriers as every courtesy van for every other hotel came and went. an 80 year old cowboy from arizona went to complain and was told the van was on its way. where was he coming from? jersey? mr. courtesy van driver gave a little laugh when he saw us and packed us in. "more happy US AIR customers, i see." we weren't laughing.
they don't feed you for free anymore on planes and my sandwich of 7 hours ago was long ago digested, stomach grumbling for more, but at that hour HoJo's was closed and i'd have to make do with the trail mix i secrety praised myself for buying the day before. as i paid my $77 in the hotel i pleaded, "do you have any painkillers? i hurt myself running for the plane." the concierge said sure, in the vending machines. and there it was, a little pack of Aleve that could perhaps put a dent in my agony, only $2 away. but i did not have $2 and the machine wouldn't take a ten. i gave up. US AIR had won, i was beaten. in my stale cigarette scented room i set the alarm clock for 5:00 AM and gingerly removed my clothes and laid myself on the bed. for 7 hours i tossed, if you could call it tossing since it was slow motion accompanied by whimpers and cries. i am not sure i ever slept, but i must have slept just long enough to miss the fact that the 5 AM alarm never did go off. at 6:19 i sat bolt upright with a yelp. the hourly courtesy shuttle had left at 6. i dressed, brushed my teeth, and called for a taxi. "how much to the airport?" i asked, "$25" the ex-harley biker turned taxi driver said. "good, $30 is all i have left in the world." it was a good thing the vending machine wouldn't accept my ten the night before.
he was a heavy smoker, this driver. i could tell by his cough. i told him i was valiantly trying to quit with the patch and acupuncture and told him the story of bob's death by cancer on the 15 or so minute drive to the airport. he seemed very alarmed as he listened, eyebrows knit in the rearview mirror. "how could he tell something was wrong in his throat?" he asked, and i told him bob couldn't swallow anymore. i had the distinct sense the taxi driver was worried about something. maybe he too was having a problem he preferred to ignore, as bob did. maybe he too was afraid of finding out what was wrong with him. maybe i missed a plane, but maybe, just maybe, i saved a taxi driver's life.
but don't get your hopes up.
you know airplane crowds, they're up and in the aisle long before the hatch door ever opens. like a herd of cows waiting to be milked. they don't care if you need to cut through the line and get out first. in Coach there's a mentality of "i suffered like a sardine for 3000 miles and i am not about to let anyone get off this plane before me". you know the type. they stand there slowly hauling their oversized carry-on out of the overhead bin, oblivious to the impatient line of desperate flyers aching to flee the fuselage. unfortunately, even if these boneheads had moved more quickly, even if they had stepped aside for those of us with connecting flights, we never would have made our flights anyway. you see, the pilot lied. our connections were long gone. but i didn't know that yet as i clomped gracelessly through the airport, leather backpack repeatedly bouncing and ramming me in the spine until suddenly the lightning bolt struck and i froze. did i dare move? if i do will i end up on a stretcher? the muscle spasm radiated, burned, and never relented. my plane..... i have to make my plane. face twisted in pain, tears catching in my waterproof lashes, i gingerly staggered on to B 8, backpack clutched to my belly.
i arrived 3 minutes before scheduled take-off at the hartford connection gate to find emptiness. i looked out the plate glass windows and saw nothing. no plane. the dour airline lady at the desk had no pity for us - an angry man, an irate woman and her baby, and a disbelieving me.
"we don't hold planes," she said.
"that's not what the pilot said!" the three of us exploded.
she didn't give a damn and didn't hesitate to show it in her face. US AIR employees clearly need a seminar in customer service. "we never hold planes," she insisted. i begged to differ. "oddly enough," i said, "my flight out of charlotte, north carolina to vegas on friday sat on the runway a full twenty minutes specifically to wait for passengers from connecting flights. the pilot even told us that's why our take-off was late." she was unmoved. "the pilot promised us our connections would wait!" the red-faced man insisted. we were met with pursed lips, a shake of the head. besides, we could argue till we were blue in the face and it wouldn't bring the plane back. "when is the next flight?" we three asked in unison. our answer? that was it, no more flights tonight. we'd be catching the 7:55 AM to hartford tomorrow. tired of us, she directed us to US AIR's customer service booth where slightly less jaded employees handed us pathetic overnight goodie bags of toothpaste and combs and an alleged "discount" voucher for Howard Johnson's. DISCOUNT? i have to pay for US AIR's incompetence? $77, no less? wearily, she handed me a form i could fill out to contest the hotel cost and beg for reimbursement. but don't get your hopes up.
lurched sideways from the unrelenting electric shock of pain that had almost brought me to my knees on the run to Gate B 8, i shuffled outside to await the hotel's courtesy van. and waited. and waited. it was drizzling in philly, fitting the mood of all of us disgruntled US AIR victims leaning against chilled cement barriers as every courtesy van for every other hotel came and went. an 80 year old cowboy from arizona went to complain and was told the van was on its way. where was he coming from? jersey? mr. courtesy van driver gave a little laugh when he saw us and packed us in. "more happy US AIR customers, i see." we weren't laughing.
they don't feed you for free anymore on planes and my sandwich of 7 hours ago was long ago digested, stomach grumbling for more, but at that hour HoJo's was closed and i'd have to make do with the trail mix i secrety praised myself for buying the day before. as i paid my $77 in the hotel i pleaded, "do you have any painkillers? i hurt myself running for the plane." the concierge said sure, in the vending machines. and there it was, a little pack of Aleve that could perhaps put a dent in my agony, only $2 away. but i did not have $2 and the machine wouldn't take a ten. i gave up. US AIR had won, i was beaten. in my stale cigarette scented room i set the alarm clock for 5:00 AM and gingerly removed my clothes and laid myself on the bed. for 7 hours i tossed, if you could call it tossing since it was slow motion accompanied by whimpers and cries. i am not sure i ever slept, but i must have slept just long enough to miss the fact that the 5 AM alarm never did go off. at 6:19 i sat bolt upright with a yelp. the hourly courtesy shuttle had left at 6. i dressed, brushed my teeth, and called for a taxi. "how much to the airport?" i asked, "$25" the ex-harley biker turned taxi driver said. "good, $30 is all i have left in the world." it was a good thing the vending machine wouldn't accept my ten the night before.
he was a heavy smoker, this driver. i could tell by his cough. i told him i was valiantly trying to quit with the patch and acupuncture and told him the story of bob's death by cancer on the 15 or so minute drive to the airport. he seemed very alarmed as he listened, eyebrows knit in the rearview mirror. "how could he tell something was wrong in his throat?" he asked, and i told him bob couldn't swallow anymore. i had the distinct sense the taxi driver was worried about something. maybe he too was having a problem he preferred to ignore, as bob did. maybe he too was afraid of finding out what was wrong with him. maybe i missed a plane, but maybe, just maybe, i saved a taxi driver's life.
but don't get your hopes up.
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
i got the power!
i like going in Green Mountain Power Equipment. it's reminds me of bob's old Exxon except in mini. repairs on cars shrunken down to repairs on mowers. like the old Exxon there are machines strewn about the place and though it lacks the great big bays and the super-sized air compressor it's still got the feel. a big old fan blowing air around on a hot day. the same cinderblock walls filmed in grease, filmed in grime, filmed in dust. the hand-printed receipts, the dirty cash register, dented file cabinets. all reminiscent of the old Exxon. where bob had Snap-On tool calendars featuring sexy girls hung behind his office door where the public couldn't see them, this guy's got equal opportunity calendar titillation hung by the register. beefy guys in cut-offs and well-rounded chicks in barely-there bikinis, side by side. i like his sense of fairness and his sense of humor. even the guy behind the counter is bob minus 15 years. he's tall and rangy with impressive forearms i like to stare at and the same kind of once-broken nose and sun-bleached blond hair. instead of green garage pants he wears hiking shorts and a tee with the sleeves torn off. not something bob, with his striped Exxon shirts with the script Bob embroidered over the left pocket, would have worn. but to each mechanic his own. i like the smell of the place. it smells like motors and gas. like bob used to smell.
the first time i went in David, the Green Mountain guy, paid me little attention. i was just one of the stream of summer customers with broken mowers. i wore rumpled shorts and a stained tank top, no makeup and my hair disguised in a red bandanna. nothing to look at. i didn't even notice him that much in my lawnmower aggravation. he just grew on me over time. each time i went in i prayed his idiot driver wouldn't wait on me. that guy had stopped over once to re-string my weed wacker. "So," he'd grinned toothlessly through his hairlip, "how long's your husband been dead?" nice. great come-on. "18 months," i said, silently willing the wacker strung already. "Sooooo," he says, all 5'3" and 200+ pounds of him, "time to get back in the dating scene." oh christ. could he possibly think he had a chance? he had the IQ of one of Hugh Hefner's bimbos. am i that bad now that this guy thinks i'm fair game? "no, no," i protested, "not interested in any of that shit." my smile a half sneer, i'm sure of it. i've never been able to control my face.
david, on the other hand, took on greek god proportions over the summer of mechanical breakdowns. he paid me a lot more attention the day i arrived and descended out of bob's giant green Ford F-250 in a summer flowered breezy dress and high heels, curls loose in the wind, workday makeup on my summer tanned face. suddenly the abrupt businessman became a hopeless flirt and i was just as bad, joking that i mowed my lawn in heels to aerate the soil. he rolled his eyes and grinned. lame, i know. but flirting people say stupid things that are only cute to the other flirtee. i found a nice dress and prettier face earned me $20 off the standard cost of the repair for 'water in the gas tank' (a problem i was to have 2 times this past summer). i wondered how much more cleavage might gain me. hell, why not? women get ripped off all the time for the sake of being women. i am not above lowering my bill with cleavage. their weakness should be my power, after all.
so david has now repaired my weed wacker and showed me how to raise the handle and tighten the strap so it's gone from tall bob-size to val-size. i almost thought i'd seriously have to weed wack in heels it was so tall for me. i've got 10 foot tall weeds under the apple tree, a thicket of bamboo. he thinks i exaggerate but i could always send him a bikini-clad photo, "Me With Tall Weed" as proof. and maybe free repairs for the life of the wacker...
the first time i went in David, the Green Mountain guy, paid me little attention. i was just one of the stream of summer customers with broken mowers. i wore rumpled shorts and a stained tank top, no makeup and my hair disguised in a red bandanna. nothing to look at. i didn't even notice him that much in my lawnmower aggravation. he just grew on me over time. each time i went in i prayed his idiot driver wouldn't wait on me. that guy had stopped over once to re-string my weed wacker. "So," he'd grinned toothlessly through his hairlip, "how long's your husband been dead?" nice. great come-on. "18 months," i said, silently willing the wacker strung already. "Sooooo," he says, all 5'3" and 200+ pounds of him, "time to get back in the dating scene." oh christ. could he possibly think he had a chance? he had the IQ of one of Hugh Hefner's bimbos. am i that bad now that this guy thinks i'm fair game? "no, no," i protested, "not interested in any of that shit." my smile a half sneer, i'm sure of it. i've never been able to control my face.
david, on the other hand, took on greek god proportions over the summer of mechanical breakdowns. he paid me a lot more attention the day i arrived and descended out of bob's giant green Ford F-250 in a summer flowered breezy dress and high heels, curls loose in the wind, workday makeup on my summer tanned face. suddenly the abrupt businessman became a hopeless flirt and i was just as bad, joking that i mowed my lawn in heels to aerate the soil. he rolled his eyes and grinned. lame, i know. but flirting people say stupid things that are only cute to the other flirtee. i found a nice dress and prettier face earned me $20 off the standard cost of the repair for 'water in the gas tank' (a problem i was to have 2 times this past summer). i wondered how much more cleavage might gain me. hell, why not? women get ripped off all the time for the sake of being women. i am not above lowering my bill with cleavage. their weakness should be my power, after all.
so david has now repaired my weed wacker and showed me how to raise the handle and tighten the strap so it's gone from tall bob-size to val-size. i almost thought i'd seriously have to weed wack in heels it was so tall for me. i've got 10 foot tall weeds under the apple tree, a thicket of bamboo. he thinks i exaggerate but i could always send him a bikini-clad photo, "Me With Tall Weed" as proof. and maybe free repairs for the life of the wacker...
the toilet god
when i told a good friend that i'd cried over the open pool of a toilet tank, he wisely said, "valerie, you weren't crying over the toilet." well, literally i was. tears really were dripping into the tank. and it really had made me cry. but he was right. i was crying over far more than a wayward toilet. crying because i had to fix it and it should have been so easy and it wasn't and because i never would have had to if bob were alive. for him it would have been a two-second job and me? i didn't even know enough to turn off the cold water supply before plunging my hand in to the elbow. he would have known that the toilet fix-it kit in the basement was not for our toilet, but for those at my parents' house. but me, i'm trying to make a little flapper cover a big drainhole. so for a week or more i took the lid off every time i flushed to make sure the crumbling old flapper i'd reaffixed covered the hole right because of course it no longer fit right when i reinstalled it. i simply couldn't face the toilet all that time. a little job was just too big a job for me.
sometimes everything's too big for me. i feel so useless and incapable. lost and floundering. and i'm really no slouch. i mean, i know how to run a chop saw, a skill saw, a table saw. i have my own drill. i've been stripping the aluminum siding off the house, sometimes up on a steep roof, sometimes on a scaffold. i've been scraping and painting and replacing window glass. i've lost all fear of menacing carpenter bees and instead stand there like a warrior princess, brandishing my weapon paintbrush, daring them to bring it on. i can move huge ladders. i can patch a roof with tar. i can run a bead of silicone, of caulk. i can do alot of things. pop raised me as if i was his oldest son instead of oldest daughter and though he pretty much floundered as a carpenter because he was really a professor and the two don't readily seem to mix, we still made do. we built fences and horse stalls and a hay loft. later still, with bob's help, we built a shed out of the old barn's wood once it fell down. i had my own tool belt, like a holster. i was tough and i could work side by side with the men. now the men are dead and sometimes my holster seems empty against all the enemy things wrong.
so why the hell should a toilet flapper beat me? once i regrouped (so what if it took a week or two?) i revisited that toilet like a woman to be reckoned with. i could hear bob saying honey, you can do this. so i flushed the enemy toilet and turned the water supply off and removed the offending flapper. marched my Jeep right over to the hardware store with the crumbly rubber wrapped in paper towel because i didn't like touching it. Universal Toilet Flapper one package said. universal should mean what it says, but i double-checked with a man in a name tag. yes, it should fit. should? i didn't like that word. i needed a definite yes or no with all i'd been through with this toilet. so he obliged, yes it will fit. as an extra treat i bought myself a pound of my favorite philips head screws. i love screws. you can never have too many screws. there's a certain satisfaction you can't beat when you powerdrill a screw into wood. but my toilet awaited.
i detached the little hose that helps refill the toilet so i could slip the new rubber ring on the little pipe and attach the robust new flapper to it. i am sure they have official names, but i don't know them, and frankly i hope not to see the inside of that tank for a long time to come. my flapper fit perfectly first time in. i even got the chain length right on the first try. just one flush and i would know for sure if i'd mastered the flapper. so i leaned over to that place we all hate, the place in back of the bowl where the plunger and the toilet brush hide, and turned the metal knob to refill the tank with water. then i stood up with proud satisfaction only to be sprayed full in the face by a wildly flopping nozzle. i'd forgotten to reattach the filler nozzle to the tube. face full of toilet tank water. i had to capture it as one would a hissing snake and clip it back where it belonged, but this time i could laugh instead of cry. sure, the toilet had the last laugh with its porcelain chilled Fuck You but i laughed along. and i think bob, surely watching as always, had a good laugh too. after all, this was a show he would have loved.
sometimes everything's too big for me. i feel so useless and incapable. lost and floundering. and i'm really no slouch. i mean, i know how to run a chop saw, a skill saw, a table saw. i have my own drill. i've been stripping the aluminum siding off the house, sometimes up on a steep roof, sometimes on a scaffold. i've been scraping and painting and replacing window glass. i've lost all fear of menacing carpenter bees and instead stand there like a warrior princess, brandishing my weapon paintbrush, daring them to bring it on. i can move huge ladders. i can patch a roof with tar. i can run a bead of silicone, of caulk. i can do alot of things. pop raised me as if i was his oldest son instead of oldest daughter and though he pretty much floundered as a carpenter because he was really a professor and the two don't readily seem to mix, we still made do. we built fences and horse stalls and a hay loft. later still, with bob's help, we built a shed out of the old barn's wood once it fell down. i had my own tool belt, like a holster. i was tough and i could work side by side with the men. now the men are dead and sometimes my holster seems empty against all the enemy things wrong.
so why the hell should a toilet flapper beat me? once i regrouped (so what if it took a week or two?) i revisited that toilet like a woman to be reckoned with. i could hear bob saying honey, you can do this. so i flushed the enemy toilet and turned the water supply off and removed the offending flapper. marched my Jeep right over to the hardware store with the crumbly rubber wrapped in paper towel because i didn't like touching it. Universal Toilet Flapper one package said. universal should mean what it says, but i double-checked with a man in a name tag. yes, it should fit. should? i didn't like that word. i needed a definite yes or no with all i'd been through with this toilet. so he obliged, yes it will fit. as an extra treat i bought myself a pound of my favorite philips head screws. i love screws. you can never have too many screws. there's a certain satisfaction you can't beat when you powerdrill a screw into wood. but my toilet awaited.
i detached the little hose that helps refill the toilet so i could slip the new rubber ring on the little pipe and attach the robust new flapper to it. i am sure they have official names, but i don't know them, and frankly i hope not to see the inside of that tank for a long time to come. my flapper fit perfectly first time in. i even got the chain length right on the first try. just one flush and i would know for sure if i'd mastered the flapper. so i leaned over to that place we all hate, the place in back of the bowl where the plunger and the toilet brush hide, and turned the metal knob to refill the tank with water. then i stood up with proud satisfaction only to be sprayed full in the face by a wildly flopping nozzle. i'd forgotten to reattach the filler nozzle to the tube. face full of toilet tank water. i had to capture it as one would a hissing snake and clip it back where it belonged, but this time i could laugh instead of cry. sure, the toilet had the last laugh with its porcelain chilled Fuck You but i laughed along. and i think bob, surely watching as always, had a good laugh too. after all, this was a show he would have loved.
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